


Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives

by cymbalism



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Cooking, Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the apocalypse, Dean's living with Lisa and earning his keep by cooking dinner. Cas likes that Dean can cook. Dean likes Cas's company. But they could use a little alone time, and Dean has a lot to learn about what <i>the rest of his life</i> really means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written because [](http://nefariousginger.livejournal.com/profile)[**nefariousginger**](http://nefariousginger.livejournal.com/) said, "Cas spends an inordinate amount of time in kitchens . . . it's kind of hot," and then happened to request kitchen!smut for her birthday. Story takes place after season 5, in a world where the almost-apocalypse ended alright for everybody, and it _ignores absolutely everything_ after that.

  


**PART 1**

Occasionally, Dean dreams about Cas. In most of those dreams, Cas is in a kitchen. And most of the time, he's cooking.

It's absurd, Cas standing there with an apron over his trench coat and one of those floppy chef hats on his head, flipping pancakes. But it's one of those things that assures Dean he's actually sleeping and actually dreaming. The real Cas would never go for that shit. He wouldn't pop up into Dean's subconscious with a message from Heaven and decide to whip up breakfast while he's at it.

No, these are just dreams. How or when or why Cas made Dean's list of happy things to dream about (homey kitchens, favorite foods, a warrior angel of the Lord . . .), Dean isn't too sure. But it's not the weirdest thing that's ever happened to him, so he doesn't give it much thought. Until Castiel shows up in Lisa's kitchen.

First there's a rustle of invisible wings and then there's Cas in his trench coat, leaning almost lazily against the countertop.

"Hello, Dean."

"Dude, what're you doing? You're not supposed to be here," Dean hisses like a teenager with something to hide, but Cas just does the head-tilt thing.

"I'm not?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because." Dean pinches his lips and exhales sharply. He doesn't know why. Because it's _Lisa's_ kitchen, and that's just weird. It's certainly not because the memory of those dreams—of Cas in kitchens—is making Dean's heart beat a little faster and his palms get a little sweaty. "Someone could see you."

Cas's eyebrows are confused. "Am I a secret?"

"Yes!" Dean hisses again, but his heart freezes for a second and he shakes his head before he thinks about that too hard. "I mean, no. No, you're not a secret. You're just . . . hard to explain." He ducks a look around the corner to see if Lisa or Ben has noticed him talking to himself yet. So far they're still watching TV. "Look, just come back later, okay? Sometime when nobody's around, or something."

A happy little smile bends up Cas's mouth. "Okay, I will."

"Okay."

"Okay."

And then there's a rustle of invisible wings and Cas is gone. Dean swipes a hand down his face.

  
**— — — — —**   
  


So that first time nothing happened. No big deal. But the idea is in Dean's head now, and it's getting harder to escape. It doesn't help that he has other real memories of Cas in kitchens. Like Cas in Bobby's kitchen, crowding in close and threatening to throw Dean back into hell. And Cas in Chuck's kitchen, shouting that he'll hold them off, he'll hold them all off. It's all a jumble of power and domesticity in Dean's brain—holy terror and the comfort of home rolled into one blue-eyed, super serious dude with messy hair and metaphysical wings. It's . . . confusing. And kind of hot. Dean tries not to think about it. Much.

The next time Cas shows up, Dean is home alone. Lisa does the yoga lessons thing in the evening a couple times a week, on the same nights as Ben has soccer practice. Dean only works part time at the auto parts store in town, so he figures it's his job to get dinner on the table by the time they get home. Lisa appreciates it, and it makes Dean feel like less of loser so, smiles all around. That evening, when Cas pops in, Dean's somewhere in the middle of making spaghetti sauce.

He's scraping the onions into the pot, and at Cas's "Hello, Dean," he almost loses the small cutting board into the burbling stewed tomatoes, too.

Dean curses and steps away from the hot burner. "You again."

Cas nods once, and moves to the island counter where Dean has the sauce ingredients spread out. He surveys the stuff like it's a fancy new puzzle, glances at the pot on the stove, and Dean sees the moment he puts it all together. "You're cooking."

It doesn't sound like a question, but there's a little too much disbelief in Cas's voice than Dean thinks is fair. "Yeah, okay, you caught me," he deadpans, digging out the mushrooms from the piles of plastic produce bags on the counter. Cas just looks on with undisguised surprise and interest as Dean breaks open the plastic wrap and counts out mushrooms. "You here on business, or did you just drop in to gawk?" Dean prods. Even after years, it's still unnerving being the receiving end of that stare.

If there's business it's nothing pressing because instead of answering Cas asks, "Have you always had this particular set of skills?"

"Sammy didn't get to be Gigantor on Lucky Charms alone," Dean shrugs. "Somebody had to feed him real food," he adds, so that Cas doesn't think he was wheeling and dealing with leprechauns or anything.

Actually, Dean started out following recipes on soup can labels for casseroles—anything compiled from canned goods was easy enough for a twelve year old, so long as they were staying some place with an oven. There had been long stretches of PB&J sandwiches and ramen noodles cooked on camp stoves, of course.

"I don't understand," Cas says as Dean turns to plop the mushrooms into the pot and stir. "If you have always been capable of preparing nutritious food for yourself and your brother, why did you only eat pizza and fried chicken and hamburgers?"

Dean frowns. There's some kind of heavenly judgment in there somewhere, he can feel it. "What's wrong with burgers? I like burgers. Hell, _you_ like burgers. You even like 'em nice and raw." He grins as Cas rolls in his lips and turns a light shade of green. "We hit diners for the home cooking. Wasn't exactly time to stop and cook during the apocalypse, was there?"

With an awkward kind of head bob, Cas seems to concede the point. "This is a change for the better," he says solemnly. "It . . . suits you."

Dean's eyebrows climb. If he didn't know better, he'd say that sounded downright fond. He clears his throat. "Yeah, thanks. Now don't just stand there," he nods to the rest of the unchopped vegetables, "Help."

For a guy who can knife mooks in the throat, Cas has surprisingly little skill with a cleaver and cutting board. ("That was an _angelic weapon_ , Dean.") But after Dean makes him ditch the trench coat and shows him how to keep from losing a finger, Cas picks it up quick. He slices his way through a zucchini in no time, so Dean ends up showing him the whole shebang. He narrates as he takes Cas step by step through the rest, because when Dean wasn't watching soaps or porn during downtime, he was honing his culinary knowledge with cooking shows. (And half the time those food shows are like porn anyway, all intimate close-ups and juicy bright colors to spike your pulse and make you drool. Real life and porn are more easily confused than you'd think—shove it, Sam.) He has Cas slice up some peppers, then dice up the garlic and shake in the parsley, basil, and oregano while Dean puts bread slices spread with garlic butter and sprinkled with cheese in the oven and then stirs in tomato paste to thicken the sauce.

There's some downtime while they let the pot simmer. Dean puts away unused ingredients, starts heating the water for the pasta, and wipes down the counters. Cas listens with full attention as Dean explains that recipes are place to start, but that he likes to improvise. "It's not much different from being on the road hunting. There's certain things you gotta do to gank a ghost or demon or vamp, but mostly you make it up as you go." He wrings out the dishcloth, drapes it over the faucet, and leans back against the island with finality, arms crossed and hip-to-hip with Cas, to watch the nonexistent action on the stovetop.

It takes two seconds for the silence and stillness to get weird. The kitchen smells mouthwateringly good. It's warm and Cas is close and if Dean were to close his eyes he might end up dreaming this same scene. It wasn't as weird as he thought it would be, Cas cooking. But before he begins to think something sappy and stupid like _dreams really do come true_ he shifts away, aware that Cas's gaze follows him. He adds the noodles to the boiling water, and stirs the sauce. He takes a slurp off the spoon and is pleased to find it's damn delicious.

"You gotta try this, c'mere," he jerks his head in invitation, still stirring, but Cas stays put. "No, really. Try this. You helped make it, you get to reap the rewards."

Cas looks like he's smiling at some private joke. "Thank you, Dean, but that's not necessary."

"What, you don't eat between meals? Come on." Dean beckons with a spoonful.

This time Cas chuckles audibly. "I don't eat at all. You know that."

"Yeah, well, just because you don't doesn't mean you can't. That vessel's still got taste buds, right? Here." Dean steps away from the stove, free hand cupped below the wooden spoon to catch any drips, and hovers the spoon in front of Cas's mouth.

Cas starts to protest again, "Dean, this isn't—" but Dean darts between his words and Cas's lips fall around the spoon. His eyes snap shut and he moans. When Dean pulls the spoon away, Cas leans after it, humming. "Mmm. Dean." His eyes open, hazy blue and pupils wide with pleasure. "That is very good."

Dean realizes he's holding his breath but he can't get his lungs to work quite yet.

There's a smudge of sauce on Cas's bottom lip. There's a smudge of sauce on Cas's bottom lip and Dean can't breathe or move but apparently he's doing a good job staring because Cas licks it clean without taking his eyes off Dean.

Dean wavers where he stands. He tries to concentrate on not falling forward and accidentally catching himself with his lips on Cas's mouth, but that only makes it more of a possibility. Cas is all wide eyes and parted lips and _so close_ and, oh God, leaning closer, and Dean internally shouts at his brain to _wake up, wake the fuck up_ even though he knows he's not sleeping because this has not happened in his dreams and—

Keys jangle as they hit the counter in the back room and Dean snaps from one kind of panic into another. He's still frozen where he stands, but evidently that switch from dopey desire to crazy-eyed dread is all it takes for Cas to get the message.

By the time Lisa calls, "We're home!" and Ben pounds into the kitchen, sweaty and in shin pads, Dean is alone, standing there holding out a taste-test spoon to thin air.

Lisa swoops by and kisses his cheek and Dean's eyes dart to the chair where he'd put Cas's coat.

It's gone, too.

Dean exhales.

  
**— — — — —**   
  


So now he's dreaming about kissing angels in kitchens. Well, one angel. The kitchen changes.

Sometimes his subconscious has him in Lisa's kitchen, licking that pasta sauce from Cas's lower lip. Sometimes they're in a crappy motel kitchenette, beer on the counter, Cas's tongue in his mouth. Sometimes they're in a sunny kitchen with warm-colored wood cabinets Dean doesn't recognize as anywhere in particular, but there are pancakes and whipped cream and Dean wakes up hard from that one because it's always maybe just about to go beyond kissing.

Anyway, there's always Cas and a kitchen and some kind of food and kissing. Despite the fact that it's his own subconscious at work, Dean blames all this solely on Cas.

Thing is, he just keeps coming back. He just pops in, the friendly neighborhood angel who chops vegetables for the salad. Castiel, Warrior Angel of the Cutting Board, Dean teased once, but Cas's gaze hardened and he made his next slice extra deliberate and Dean reminded himself not to piss off the angel holding a sharp object.

Cas comes back often enough that Dean starts to think up stuff to make that could use an extra pair of hands for prep. He always gives Cas onion-chopping duty because his eyes don't tear up. And when Dean had him cube meat for kabobs one time, he was relieved to find that Cas didn't thank the flank steak for its sacrifice or anything.

It turns out Cas is sort of a crazy perfectionist (really, Dean shouldn't be surprised by that) and it turns out that's kind of hot (ditto). Cas takes a strategic approach to each vegetable, considering the best angle before making the first precise cut, asking how Dean would like it (Dean's mostly sure he imagines the innuendo there): sliced or chopped or diced. And then Cas sets about his task, sleeves rolled up to bare taut, slender wrists that lead to nimble fingers. Dean has to force himself not to watch Cas wash carrots. Or potatoes. Or anything that involves stroking or fondling. It makes him drop stuff and burn things, like himself.

Dean continues to make Cas taste test the food. Not everything is greeted as orgasmic, but watching Cas close his eyes and savor makes Dean's insides feel tingly. Cas begins to show a preference for deep, musky flavors like cumin and sage and cinnamon, and for tangy foods, like salt and vinegar potato chips and sour cream. Cas doesn't sample food on his own, but accepts Dean's proffered spoonfuls of whatever's cooking, and sometimes, when their eyes accidentally meet, Dean swears he sees an unsettling hunger in Cas's gaze.

So mostly that's how it goes: a time or two every week Cas shows up, wields a knife, listens to Dean alternately brag and bitch, and takes off when the job is done. In a way, it's just like old times. Sort of.

But Dean notices that no matter what the meal or whether they've finished, Cas flutters away before Lisa gets home.

  
**— — — — —**   
  


Dean is making cookies for Ben's soccer team bake sale. Cas has a smudge of flour on his cheek. While Dean contemplates wiping said flour from said cheek with his thumb, Cas asks if Dean is sleeping with Lisa.

"'The hell, man?" Dean splutters, and dumps too much sugar into the measuring cup. "Who've you been talking to? Did Sam put you up to this?"

"No," Cas answers, concentrating on carefully scraping a teaspoon of baking soda from the box and tapping it into the mixing bowl between them. "It's a simple question, Dean. Are you having sex with Lisa?"

Dean slaps on a smirk to cover the panicky part of him that just thought _Cas said_ sex _!_ and continues to avoid the simple question. "C'mon, you're telling me you haven't peeked in to find out? Not even once?" He waggles his eyebrows. "I thought angels were always watching over me."

"Get your mind out of the gutter." Cas dusts his hands before planting them on the countertop and fixing a stare on Dean.

"You started it," Dean grouses and empties the sugar into the bowl. Cas keeps staring in that way that implies he thinks you're a crabby little kid but he still expects an answer. Dean sighs then mumbles, "Didn't work out, okay?"

He and Lisa had a couple life-affirming, apocalypse-averted rolls in the hay, but sooner rather than later they knew it wasn't gonna happen for real. It wasn't that big of a deal, actually, and Dean just sleeps in the guest room now.

"It 'didn't work out,'" Cas repeats, all solemn and focused, and still with the flour on his cheek. "So you make dinner and do chores in exchange for . . ."

That smarts. "For a place to sleep, Cas."

"You've slept many places, Dean," Castiel replies evenly in that I-know-you-better-than-you-know-you tone.

Because he's had plenty of practice, it only takes Dean a second to decode that from cryptic angelspeak. Translation: Why stay here?

"What's the matter with staying here?" he asks.

But then he remembers all those dreams and all that kissing in all those other kitchens and suddenly his brain is barreling toward a kind of conversation he's sure Cas wasn't intending to have. And if this keeps going in the direction Dean's brain is going, well—he needs to not be having this conversation anymore. Because dream make-outs with a hot angel are one thing, but there's no way that comes true.

He pushes away from the counter in a move of suave, strategic misdirection before Cas can answer his question.

"Anyway, I like it here. Sam's, what, two hours away," he lists, fishing the vanilla out of cupboard, "off in law school la-la land at Notre freaking Dame. Lisa doesn't mind that I'm here." Dean digs out the shortening. "Ben's a cool kid." He shoves his head into the fridge. "Plus, I have a job, and—oh, crap, looky there." He swings the fridge door shut and does a bad job of sounding disappointed. "We're out of eggs."

Cas is frowning at Dean as though he thoroughly disapproves of the second head Dean's grown.

"So, uh, you chill here for a sec while I go get some, 'kay? Great."

"And what if someone comes home?" Cas asks with an edge.

"No one's coming back for an hour. It's cool. Just," he claps a hand to Cas's shoulder and the canister of shortening to his chest, "measure that. A cup and a third."

Cas gives him a close-quarters stare. "I have a better idea," he says, and disappears.

Dean slams down the shortening and throws up his hands, but Cas is back before Dean can even start to bitch. And he's holding a carton of eggs.

"Here."

"Dude. Where did you get those?"

"In the dairy aisle, next to the butter."

Dean waves off the obvious. "No, I mean, did you pay?" Cas's head tilt is an answer in itself, and Dean laughs, hard. "I can't believe you just stole eggs. Some angel you are," he ribs, returning to cookie making.

Cas just watches as Dean cracks eggs. "You spent years acquiring credit cards under false names and hustling pool. Wasn't that stealing?"

Dean pouts. "That was different. And they weren't fake names. They just weren't _our_ names." He's pretty sure Cas rolls his eyes.

"May we return to our initial topic now?" Cas steps to the counter, brushing into Dean's space. Dean tenses.

"Sure, where'd we leave off? Oh, that's right. Sam's been teaching you how to ask annoying personal questions."

Cas sighs, plucks the measuring spoons from the counter and metes out a teaspoon of vanilla. "You never talk about you, Dean. The only way to know anything is to ask."

"You could read my mind," Dean says with a shrug, and regrets it immediately—one glance sideways and he gets mesmerized by the slender strip of bare skin at Cas's neck, the blunt ends of his fingers as they trace over recipe card, and the several dozen things he wants to do to and with those body parts alone. Yeah, he really doesn't want the angel poking around in his head.

"I'd prefer if that wasn't necessary," Cas mutters and reaches for the shortening.

"Huh?"

Cas ignores him, except to enunciate clearer. "If you are not having sex with Lisa, you should move out."

Dean laughs so hard he rocks backward. "You are one strange dude, Cas."

"I'm serious."

"You're always serious." Dean smirks.

"You don't need to be here, Dean." Cas's big blue eyes are all earnestness. "It would be good for you to have a place of your own."

"And it would be good for you to stop having heart-to-hearts with Sam," Dean snaps. He immediately feels guilty, but Cas drops the issue.

Dean redirects into the subject of baking, showing Cas how to fold in the dry ingredients into the wet ones, how to spoon up the right size glob of dough onto the baking sheet, and—God help him—the benefits of licking the beaters.

  
**— — — — —**   
  


Cas is a no-show for a couple weeks after that. Dean tries to shrug it off. Fails.

He calls Sam a couple times, eventually works up the guts to ask whether he's heard from the Winchester family angel. "Nope," Sam says, "Not a peep. Not for a couple months, I think. You?"

Dean does the math, decides no one's lying to him—there was no heart-to-heart with Sam about Lisa, about Dean moving out.

"Nah," he brushes aside that thing that feels like disappointment. "Like you said, not a peep."

There's no more kissing in Dean's dreams. Instead, he wakes up with a hole in his chest.

  
**— — — — —**   
  


The TV flashes to commercial and Dean launches off the couch. "Pie break," he announces. "Who's in?" Ben shoots a hand in the air. Lisa rolls her eyes with a smile and declines. "Two slices à la mode, comin' right up," Dean claps his hands together.

In the kitchen, Dean doesn't bother with lights. He plates up two slices of the sweet blueberry pie he'd bought earlier—he'd cut back on the baking recently—in the grey dark. He takes a bite of one and turns to the fridge to get the ice cream.

When he turns around again, Cas is there. Dean jolts, but his mouthful of pie prevents him from cussing.

Cas is a solid shadow, chin to his chest, hands clenched in determined fists, and fierce stare fixed on Dean. It's a look that says he's either going to smite you or fuck you. Dean swallows. Right now, his money's on smite.

He puts up placating hands but Cas launches and there's not time to protest before his mouth covers Dean's.

Startled, Dean clutches a handful of shirtfront as Cas pushes, pushes him back, hard against a countertop, hands at Dean's hips and mouth insistent. On instinct Dean opens to him and Cas presses in, his tongue finding Dean's and the kiss turns filthy. Dean's hands fly to Cas's neck and his fingers grip into hair as Cas licks the length of Dean's bottom lip in a way that makes Dean's knees buckle. Cas slips his hands around to Dean's ass, slides them down the backs of his thighs, cups his hamstrings, and just like that Dean's ass is on the counter, with Cas's body slotted between his legs.

And dear God that's hot.

Castiel takes Dean like he's tasting him, hungry for him. He yanks Dean's hips forward, pulling them groin to groin, and Dean arches, head thrown back and body taut as he strains to stay silent. Cas sinks his mouth to Dean's exposed neck, nosing at the corner of Dean's jaw, nipping at his throat.

Dizzy and hard and not at all sure he's not dreaming this, Dean grips the shoulders of that damnable trench coat, his body thrumming _yes yes yes_. Cas drags his fingers up Dean's sides, lifting Dean's shirt as he goes, rucking it up just high enough to— _oh holy fuck YES_ —skate his tongue over Dean's nipple.

Dean wrenches Cas up for another plundering kiss. They tangle and push and pull for seconds, then—

"Show's back on!" Ben shouts from the living room.

Cas breaks off with a growl, forehead pressed to Dean's, both of them breathing hard.

"Cas—" Dean starts, not knowing how he'll end.

"Deeean, quick, you're missing it. Bring the pie!"

With one last stormy look, Cas steps back and disappears, leaving Dean on the counter, rumpled and legs wide, caught between laughing and crying and jerking off.

  
**— — — — —**   



	2. Chapter 2

**PART 2**

So, it's one thing to know, in an abstract kind of way, that you think your best angel friend is hot. It's another to have him show up and shove his tongue down your throat and leave you with the most awkward case of blue balls so far this century. Dean doesn't know what he's supposed to think about that, let alone _do_ with it. (Except that he'd do it again, minus the blue balls part.) 

He can't figure it out. He hadn't seen Cas for weeks and then _wham_ , the angel's coming at him like he'd been hit by Famine again and Dean was the new red meat. And talk about a surprise. Here Dean had been feeling guilty and weird for having dreams about just kissing an angel, and then Cas waltzes in, pins Dean's ass to a countertop, and pulls a few moves that he sure as hell didn't pick up in Heaven. Not that he's not flattered but, well, Jesus. 

He's going nuts replaying it in his head. His subconscious has been having a fucking field day, helpfully providing every move in vivid detail every time he shuts his eyes. So two days and three sleepless nights later, Dean does what he always does when he doesn't know what else to do: calls his brother. 

Dean puts up with the small talk thing for all of thirty seconds before he asks if Sam has heard from Cas. It's not that he wants to talk about it. It's that he's worried. 

"Yeah, man. He showed up the other night while I was in the library," Sam says and it sounds like he's juggling four of those huge law books, his backpack, phone, and probably some frou-frou iced coffee drink. Dean has no intention of volunteering to hang up and call back later.

"And he seemed okay to you? Like, normal?" It's a dumb question—it's not like Cas is ever exactly normal. But Dean wants to be sure Cas wasn't hit with some kind of kinky witch curse or something. So far as Dean knows most devil-worshipping trash got burned up with the plans for the apocalypse, but better safe than sorry, and it's the only explanation he's come up with so far. Not to mention, witches, man, _witches_.

"Uh, yeah. Normal as he ever is, I guess. He said he'd just seen you."

"He did?" Dean pounces, like he's turned into a thirteen-year-old girl. He checks the enthusiasm by clearing his throat.

"Yeah." Dean can hear Sam's confused face. "Dude, is everything okay? You sound kind of . . . stressed out."

"What? No, hey, I'm good. Totally good." He hears Sam drop his phone and curse. He rolls his eyes as he waits for him to get back on the line. "So, what did he say about me?"

"Who? Cas? He said something about blueberry pie, and that Lisa and Ben were there, or something? I don't know, I was studying. And I didn't know you'd told them about Cas but, hey, if they're cool with it then that's cool." 

Dean wants to ask just exactly what he thinks he means by that and tell him that Lisa and Ben don't know about Cas—because, hello, that's weird in the worlds-colliding way—but then Sam says, "Hey, dude, I've got a class," and Dean bites it back.

"You sure you're okay, though?" Sam asks, "I can drive over this weekend if there's something up."

"Nah, I'm good, Sam. Really," he says with a fake smile that turns into a frown the moment Sam hangs up. 

Because if Cas is fine and hasn't been whammied by witches, Dean has to start facing the fact that Cas made out with him on purpose. And if that's the case, he really has no freaking clue what the next move is. 

He'd rather deal with the witches.

  


**— — — — —**  


  


Eventually he starts sleeping and dreaming again. The dreams leave him unsettled, though. He's always looking for something. Not like he's patting down his pockets because he can't find his lighter or like he's on the trail of some big bad. More like he's on a quest for the Holy Grail or Princess Toadstool or something, only in suburbia. Every night he's searching through houses with empty rooms and no one home and every morning he wakes up feeling like he's missing something.

Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. They're just dreams. 

He doesn't think about it. Much.

  


**— — — — —**  


  


Dean hasn't gone shopping for real groceries in more than a week. He's been punking out on dinner duties left and right. Sometimes he'll stare at the contents of the fridge for fifteen minutes and see a dozen things he could throw together with what's there but will have zero interest in making it happen. He doesn't think too hard about why that is, putting it down to longer days at the parts store and a new addiction to late-night _How I Met Your Mother_ reruns on Lifetime, but he always makes sure to scrape at least something together so Lisa doesn't have to.

Yesterday he'd bought one of those giant pre-cooked whole chickens, so tonight it's leftovers for sandwiches. He's turning away from the island counter to grab a knife, looking for the expiration date on the Hellmann's, when he bumps smack-dab into a wall of angel.

"You're still here." Cas says, over-solemn and eternally disappointed, as the plastic mayonnaise jar hits the floor with a bounce.

Dean stops breathing for a second. This ability of Cas's to pop up anywhere seems less convenient and more cosmically unfair now that the apocalypse is over—a guy should always have the option to avoid the dude he accidentally made out with a month ago. He reaches down to retrieve the mayo and Cas watches him, head cocked in anticipation of an answer. 

But when Dean stands again, he's nose to nose with Cas. Centimeters separate them, and Cas's laser angel gaze is loaded with something a hell of a lot more dangerous than anger. Dean swallows even though his throat is dry and turns away, iron-willing back the memory of last time they were this close. 

Seeing as it's been a whole month and Dean still has no clue how the fuck to play this—because he _can't_ play it; he can't roll out his usual game, not in Lisa's freaking kitchen, not with an angel of the Lord, and not with Cas because it shouldn't be a game with Cas, and since when did he make that decision?—he goes with the cold shoulder.

"Yeah. I live here," he deadpans and slams the mayo down on the island counter.

"Exactly," Cas grumbles under his breath. Breath Dean is close enough to feel before Cas shifts away.

Dean's eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?" Cas shoots him another laser look and doesn't answer, which Dean's pretty sure is passive-aggressive angel for _if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you_. He sighs and turns back to sandwich prep.

Cas takes off his trench coat as though he's going to help, only he doesn't. Instead he settles on one of the nearby barstools and watches. He watches Dean crack open the container of leftover chicken parts, watches his fingers as he begins to pluck meat from the bones. 

The crown of Dean's head tingles under Cas's single-minded scrutiny. He doesn't know why Cas is here now or why he feels like he's done something wrong when he's finally been doing every damn thing right lately—he's holding down a normal job, contributing to a family, supporting Sam's being in law school. He's living the kind of life everybody always told him he should and nobody ever thought he would. Dean doesn't know where Cas fits into that, or if Cas is supposed to, but it wasn't Dean that got all grabby hands, so if anything's fucked up here it's Cas's doing.

"You got something to say, Cas, say it." 

The angel's attention shifts from Dean's fingers to his eyes and suddenly he goes all soft—his cheeks slacken, eyes widen. It's like he's so welled up with some unspeakable angel emotion he's going to start, like, leaking. 

Dean's own emotions quickly shuffle from totally ticked off to not-really-sure-what's-going-on nervous. 

"Tell me more about cooking, Dean," Cas says softly, almost tiredly.

For a good three seconds, Dean can only gape. Then he shakes in head in the hope some pieces will fall into place. It doesn't work. 

"I'm sorry, _what?_ "

"Cooking," Cas repeats with no sign of a joke. "I'd like to hear more about your cooking."

"I— Cas, you—" Dean presses his wrist to the point between his eyebrows where the headache is going to show up. "Okay, let me get this straight. Last time you were here . . ." He gestures vaguely to the patch of countertop near the fridge he's been more or less avoiding for a month. "And we—" He waggles messy fingers between them. "And that was . . ." Dean squeezes his eyes shut. "I mean, you _left_ and now—" He sucks it up and looks Cas almost square in the eye. "Cooking? Seriously? Cooking?"

"It's a satisfying activity for you."

Dean tries hard to bring his brain back from flat line over the way Cas said _satisfying_ and to make some damn sense out of this conversation. "Cas, what the—"

"Do you like cooking more than your current job at the auto parts store?"

"Yeah, sure, but—"

"But you like cars and you like food. Why does working with one bring you more satisfaction than another?" 

Dean's head is still spinning, but he thinks Cas might have him there. 

"I don't know, it's just different," he shrugs, going back to shredding the chicken without really thinking about it. "Car stuff's good. It's easy. There's always an answer." 

At first he'd liked how easy the job was, he explains. Compared to shouldering the responsibility for locking away Lucifer, it was a frickin' dream, and not getting chased around by monsters that wanted to eat him was a definite perk. "But now, I don't know. Sometimes I'd rather be making a couple hundred salt rounds," he chuckles. He grabs a paring knife and keeps going with both the chicken and his thoughts. 

"And, sure, I cook. But it's not like I'm going to open a restaurant or anything. Maybe I'd do a diner. Nothing fancy. Just short-order stuff, maybe. Eggs and sausage. Bacon cheeseburgers. Maybe some pie on the counter. No salad." He frowns some, whittling chunks of dark meat down to size, blunt knife blade meeting his thumb each time. "It's not like I've thought about it."

About halfway into a description of his dream diner, Dean realizes what Cas just did. He'd been tense, pissed off, ready to snap. Instead of acting on any of that, he'd slipped comfortably back into talking to Cas. He wants to be annoyed that he fell into the angel's trap, but, well. He . . . missed this. In the middle of all the other BS it's this he wanted back.

Dean ducks his chin to his shoulder and coughs back the start of a sudden lump in his throat. When he looks back, Cas is all eyes again. Big, soft, stupid blue angel eyes.

"I believe I've learned something about you, Dean," he says, his voice that good kind of gravelly. 

"Yeah? Do tell." Dean feigns disinterest by pawing through the chicken pieces. 

Cas slips off his barstool. "I think this," he motions to the bare chicken bones and assorted sandwich stuff "—cooking—makes you feel useful. Needed. But also in control," he flashes Dean one of those small, almost-ironic smiles, "which you like." Dean feels his pulse pick up as Cas makes his way around the counter. "It's another way for you to do what it is you always do, Dean: provide and protect."  
And then he's all up in Dean's personal space like they've never had four hundred conversations about this. "It's . . . instinct, for you."

Dean stands his ground and wishes his heartbeat was quieter. Wishes Cas was less tousled and hot and close. Wishes the sound of Cas's voice didn't break him open and turn him on all at that same time. 

The bitch of it is, Cas isn't wrong. Dean had never thought about it like that, exactly—provide and protect—but that's what it is. What it always has been, since Sam was a kid. And it's all part of the same deal as saving people and hunting things and _take care of your brother, Dean._

Of course, that only means he's more desperate to make this conversation go away now.

"So, what's the deal? You show up just to psychoanalyze me?" Dean pops a piece of chicken in his mouth and smirks as he chews, holding his greasy fingers away from his body. 

Before Dean can reach for a towel, Cas takes hold of Dean's wrist. Swift but deliberate, he folds the tip of Dean's thumb into his mouth and Dean's lungs stutter to a halt. Stock still and stunned, he watches as Cas closes his eyes and sucks firmly. He feels Cas's tongue drag against the fleshy pad of his thumb, extra sensitive from its contact with the paring knife. Cas parts his lips enough to circle his tongue once, then closes them again and pulls back with a hum. 

He licks his bottom lip. "No," he answers, letting go of Dean's wrist and stepping away like he's ready to leave.

And, no. Hell no. He's not getting away with that again.

Dean Fuck-It-Why-Not Winchester goes after him, greasy fingers grabbing suit lapels and all. Cas melts into the kiss, digs his fingers into Dean's hair and allows Dean the lead. 

By accident more than by design—because all Dean's really thinking about is Cas and getting more of Cas and not letting Cas fly away—Cas ends up backed against the island countertop. Dean grins when he realizes he has Cas trapped and dips down to bite at the joint of Cas's neck and jaw. That's when Cas maneuvers his thigh between Dean's legs and presses _up_ just enough and oh, fuck. 

Yes.

The kissing turns dirtier, deeper, a slow tumble of inhibitions and clutch of hands. Dean's not thinking about all the times he dreamt this, not thinking about how powerful he knows Cas is despite the fact that Dean has him half bent backwards over the counter and his tongue in his mouth. And he's not thinking about how close they are to that container of chicken until Cas reaches back to brace himself and it accidentally skids to the floor. 

Neither of them stops.

Twenty minutes later, after the make-out session of a lifetime and saying a very sexually frustrated goodbye to an equally hard up but goddamn stubborn angel, Dean's combing his hair forward with his fingers and adjusting his jeans as Lisa and Ben announce their arrival. 

Dinner's not made. The tub of chicken is upended and all the meat Dean shredded is scattered in a greasy mess on the floor. 

Dean plasters on a smile over the guilt clawing up his throat as they enter the kitchen. "Hey! Who wants to order pizza, huh?"

  


**— — — — —**   


  


The good dreams come back. More kitchens, more making out, now in more detail because Dean knows what Cas tastes like now, knows how deepening a kiss can make him give one of those broken, begging moans. Dean doesn't mind these dreams so much now that he can make out with Cas in real life. Not that they always do. Make out, that is. And that's something Dean is surprised to find he likes, the will-they-won't-they thing. Hell if he knows how a sure bet ever ended up sounding boring, but it does by comparison. So no, they don't whip up a game of tonsil hockey every time, but it's at least a possibility.

Because Cas comes back, too, obviously. He drops in at random, but not as often as before and therefore not enough. Dean stops pretending that he doesn't care. He starts asking when Cas will come back, then asking him _to_ come back. Because somewhere around week three of Cas's return Dean realizes that the apocalypse has been over for half a year and the only friends he has are the same ones he had when he only had time to worry about saving the world. And he hates how the feeling of missing something lingers even while he's fully awake.

  
**— — — — —**   


  


Cas moves in to kiss him, softer this time, but not soft. Dean finishes wiping his hands and tosses away the towel. He runs his hands over Cas's body—a body that's a lot more lithe than it looks under that trench coat, lean and hard in a way Dean finds satisfyingly sexy.

With a last lick at Dean's lower lip, Cas transfers his mouth to Dean's neck and sneaks a hand under the hem of Dean's shirt. Dean's not sure what the protocol is for stripping an angel, but Cas doesn't give him a chance to find out. He sinks to his knees and undoes Dean's fly, working his hand in around the denim. Dean's already hard. Of fucking course he is. 

Which is why it's beyond all reason that Dean actually attempts to pull away, saying, "Hey, hey, wait."

Cas, still working on getting Dean's dick out of his pants, pays him no heed.

Dean smashes his eyes shut. "Not sure—" he huffs as Cas wins his war with Dean's boxers "—this is a good idea." It's a stupid, stupid thing to say, especially when his entire body is very convinced this is the best idea he's ever had, but, "Lisa," Dean blurts just as he can feel Cas's warm touch and breath. "Shhhhit. Cas. God yes," he gushes. Then he shakes his head. "I mean, no. No no no. Cas, Lisa and Ben—"

Cas stills. Dean opens his eyes to see Cas looking up at him through his eyelashes, completely nonplussed. "Not my problem," he grates.

"I know," Dean nods, really, really distracted by the fact that Cas still has his hand in a really, really good spot. "I know, I know. It's just . . . they live here, and this is— I don't want—"

Cas withdraws his hand, expression gone to stone, and Dean dies a little bit inside. 

"Maybe," Cas says, getting to his feet. He steps close into Dean's personal space, settling his mouth at Dean's ear, "Maybe you should think about what you _do_ want, Dean." He presses tight against Dean's body, so tight Dean can feel that he's hard, too. "Because I know what I want." 

Dean's heart thuds hard in his chest, but the edges of his vision crumble to black even before Cas's words fade. Because then Dean wakes up, morning wood at full mast and aching. 

He punches the pillow with a muffled _sonofabitch_ and gives himself five minutes to take care of it.

  
**— — — — —**   


  


They make chili the Saturday Ben has some honors kid special school fieldtrip and Lisa is a chaperone. The weather's edged into winter and Dean always starts craving chili at the turn of the season. Chili's not far off from marinara sauce in terms of prep work, and Cas had shuffled through the vegetables to start sorting and chopping automatically as Dean pulled ingredients from the fridge.

Contrary to the epic cocktease that is Dean's subconscious, this is what most evenings are like between them now. It's like before Cas went away—which is A Thing Dean Does Not Ask About—only with less running commentary from Dean. It's . . . weirdly good. Comfortable, even. And Dean pretty much thinks he could do this forever.

Cas darts one of those unreadable angel glances at him and adds the diced green peppers to the simmering pot of stewed tomatoes and sauce. He stirs and taste-tests the mixture, adding more chili powder as Dean cracks open cans of kidney beans and drains off the water. 

That's when Dean realizes that, at some point, Cas got good at this, at all of it—slicing, roasting, sauteing, tasting, _cooking_ in general. It's become Cas's routine as much as Dean's, kind of like hunting had. He's become part of the process, made himself essential. Dean tries not feel touched by that, but there's some kind of vice around his lungs anyway as he says, "You could stay for dinner, you know. I mean, if you wanted." 

Cas smiles softly to himself and continues to stir the pot. "Thank you, Dean," he responds, but it's not an acceptance. 

And that's when Dean realizes he's a complete ass for not asking months ago. 

Because Cas shows up, helps Dean make food for Dean's not-girlfriend, and never gets any of what comes after—seeing the food fill plates and bellies, sitting around a table, sharing, talking, being part of something. 

Okay, so it's not as exciting or whatever as hunting and killing monsters. But it's what Dean and Sam and their dad and, hell, all hunters everywhere have always been hunting and killing monsters in order to protect. Family. People. Because people matter. And Cas matters, so Cas should be part of it. A whole part of it. 

And Dean should've realized that a long time before now.

Cas leaves that evening before the chili's done, even though Lisa and Ben won't be back. He's silent as he rinses off his cutting board, collects his coat, and kisses Dean good-bye. All of it done a little slowly, a little sadly. Dean's heart sticks in his throat the whole time. 

He doesn't ask if he'll see Cas tomorrow. He doesn't want to hear him say no.

  
**— — — — —**   


  


A few days later Dean bakes two pies, mashes like a hundred potatoes, makes one of those creepy-looking green bean casseroles with the French onions on top, and roasts his first Thanksgiving turkey. Alone.

Lisa's family comes over, bearing cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes and more pie. Sam comes too, but he just brings beer. Ben gets a lot of hugs; Dean gets to hold Lisa's sister's baby, which is weird, but kind of cool, actually; and everybody gets seconds or thirds and there's a lot of exclaiming over the turkey and the apple stuffing Dean half invented, half ripped off from the Food Network. The only people who've ever had his cooking are Lisa and Ben and Sam (well, sorta), and it's not like Dean's used to being praised or thanked for stuff—he didn't even have to kill the turkey, you know?—so he has to shove down the awkwardness he feels, but the day turns out okay.

After pie and coffee, Lisa's family leaves and Sam takes off to make the drive back to South Bend because he has a paper due Monday or something sadistic like that, and Ben scampers upstairs to go play Xbox with one of his cousins, who's staying the night. Lisa sighs happily and shoots Dean a grin. Then she stands to clear the plates, thanking Dean with a compliment and a kiss on the cheek as she goes. "Today I'm thankful that you play house with us," she comments as she heads toward the kitchen and Dean freezes.

It's a joke. She's teasing. But the truth of it slices through Dean's sternum. 

Because he's doing it again. Play-acting like he would in any civilian role—PA on a film set, convicted criminal on a stint in the pen. Only this time there's no endgame, no case to solve, no fixed point when this is over. He could go on playing this part for the rest of his life.

But Dean suddenly knows that this—specifically this, this arrangement, this playing-house deal with the readymade extended family and twelve pounds of turkey leftovers in Tupperware—this is not what he wants. 

He's not sure what he didn't understand about _the rest of his life_ the first time, but he thinks he gets it now. The rest of his life used to vary between any second now and a couple years at best—say, 2014. But that isn't true anymore. Dean has decades now. Decades to do whatever he wants.

A wave of good, old-fashioned Winchester guilt hits him then as he watches Lisa scrape plates over the disposal and load them into the dishwasher. It's not honest to Lisa and Ben to keep his life divided in half. It's not okay for him to pretend he's part of this family when he isn't. When he can't be. Not really. Not when he wants—and this is where the guilt really rolls his stomach—not when he wants to be somewhere else. With someone else. Someone who hadn't been invited today, even though Dean's pretty damn thankful for him.

Dean swallows back whatever's climbing up his throat, gives himself a minute to square what he's got to do, then gets up on unsteady knees to do it. 

"Hey, Lis?" he starts, heading into the kitchen after her.

  
**— — — — —**   


  


Dean calls Sam really fucking early the next morning. He's up and dressed and on his way in to his opening shift at the store, because apparently even an auto parts store needs a Black Friday sale. Sam, however, answers with more of a grunt than a greeting.

"Wake up, Sammy, I got news."

"Dean? Jeez, what time is it? I don't have class today," he whines. "Can you call—"

"I'm thinking of getting my own place," Dean interrupts, because some things are more important than Sam's beauty rest. Lisa had been awesome about the idea last night, but in the light of day Dean's nerves are shot to hell. Which is lame, by the way. He can track down a Wendigo and knife all manner of monsters at close range, but the idea of apartment hunting scares the shit out of him. Go figure.

Sam's voice is blurry but he sounds like he's sitting up now as he says, "Yeah? Hey, Dean, that's great."

"Yeah?"

He hears the whoosh as Sam flops back to his pillows, the lazy bastard. "Yeah, man. I mean, Lisa's great but it'll be good for you. Start living your own life, have your own space, and all that."

Dean rolls to a stop at a red light in an intersection that's never this crowded this early. "Right, yeah. That's about what I was thinking."

"Uh-huh." Sam yawns. "Cas said it seemed like you could use it."

Everyone in the world, or at least this intersection, is really damn lucky Dean's foot is already on the brake. "I'm sorry, what?" he leans into the question, ear cocked to hear every syllable Sam's about to utter. "Cas said what?"

"Um—"

The car waiting behind Dean honks. He makes a face in the rearview and waves acknowledgement before turning left through the now green light.

"Out with it, Sammy."

"Uh, yeah, all right, so Cas was here. The other day. He—"

"Jesus, Sam, and you didn't think to tell me? _What_ other day," Dean demands, not messing around now. He whips into the store lot and throws the Impala in park.

"I don't know, Dean. Saturday?" Sam's bitchface is audible. "It was Saturday night. He showed up all mopey and weird. He said you weren't getting it. Or that you were getting it because you asked him to stay for dinner, but you weren't because you can't expect him to do the same thing forever, or something."

Dean cusses and slams the steering wheel with the butt of his hand. "The little bastard was reading my mind, wasn't he?"

"Dude, what have you guys been doing? No, wait, don't answer that. It's about food, or something, and sounds kinky. I don't want to know. But look, Cas says he's done just about everything he can to get you to move out and you won't do it. So, what's with the change of heart? I mean, I'm all for it, but—"

"What? What do you mean 'get me to move out'? What are you talking about? What's 'just about everything'?" 

Sam's silence says more than his voice when he finally speaks, and all he says is Dean's name—carefully, a gentle rebuke—and that speaks volumes on its own.

Dean swipes a hand over his face as he puts it all together. Of course Cas had been working an angle. This probably goes all the way back to Cas asking if Dean was sleeping with Lisa. No, before that—to Dean telling Cas he's a secret. And, Christ, what does that mean about that first kiss? It was what? Cas's attempt to bribe him? 

He'd think it was some sick angel plot, except no one else was ever involved. Cas never dragged Heaven into it, never talked about some greater good. He'd never asked for more, only asked about what Dean wanted and gladly accepted what little Dean gave him. And then Dean went and daydreamed about a happily ever after with Cas held at arm's length.

"Sonofabitch, Sam. I get it now, okay?" Dean grits his teeth. "If he comes back, just tell him I get it now." 

"Are you sure you do? Because he wasn't just screwing with you for the hell of it, you get that, right?" There's a panicky concern in Sam's voice, but Dean's already way beyond where Sam's at in this conversation. "There's more to it than that, Dean. He—" 

Yeah, Dean's done listening. "Save it, Sam."

"Dean, don't hang up. Dean—" 

Dean hangs up as he climbs out of the car and slams the door. Pissed off doesn't even begin to describe this one. And, all right, sure, so he's mostly pissed at himself. For not figuring it out sooner, for fucking up the thing he wanted before he even knew he wanted it, which has got to be a special talent. 

But he's pissed at Cas, too. Because maybe Cas's motives were all well intentioned and in Dean's best interest and whatever, but Cas had still been a manipulative little bastard. He'd played his little angel games, slipping into Dean's life, making himself indispensable and desirable, and then disappearing for weeks. And Dean had eaten it all up, pining for him and missing him and slowly cutting out the bullshit because even Dean knows you don't play games when you're dealing with somebody you love and—

Huh. 

So, that's new. 

He rocks back against the Impala, stunned out of his anger, and tries that one on for size: In love. With Cas. 

It's not the conventional choice. Certainly not what he'd set out to find after sealing the deal on saving the world. But—Dean sees the hundred times Cas quirked smiles at him across the kitchen island, remembers the look on his face after that first taste of spaghetti sauce, his earnest expression as he'd asked Dean to explain more about cooking—it doesn't look so bad. It seems like it could be comfortable. And durable. Like it might hold up under all the shit Dean's sure to put it through. 

It fits alright, actually. 

Dean hefts his keys and pushes off the car to go open the store. What he needs to do now is show Cas.

  
**— — — — —**   


  



	3. Chapter 3

**PART 3**

Dean moves out at the beginning of January, just after New Year's. It took a couple weeks but he found a place closer to Sam (not too close, though) and lined up a transfer to an affiliate auto parts store in South Bend. He's not sure he wants to keep the job—he has the rest of his life to do whatever he wants, after all—but for now he needs money from a place that doesn't do background checks, so it works out.

Lisa kisses his cheek and makes him promise to come back and cook for them sometimes. Ben hugs him and makes him promise to come to his baseball games in the spring. Dean has no problem agreeing to either.

It's late afternoon when he pulls up to the curb outside his new home. The place isn't that big of a deal, just a speck of a house. The immediate appeal for Dean, other than being readily available, was that he didn't have to share it—neighbors across a lawn were one thing, but people living on top of you or under you were a liability. He got to rent this whole two-bedroom house for a few hundred a month, plus utilities. The lease said he could even get a dog if he wanted one. But the thing that had sealed the deal for Dean was the kitchen. It was just a kitchen, and kind of small, but it was sunny and clean and there was something about the reddish wood of the cabinets that felt homey and familiar. Like he could spend some time here. Plus the place came partially furnished, which is to say it was sporting a queen-sized bed and a dresser in one room and an old, heavy-legged table with chairs in the kitchen that matched the wood of the cabinets.

With a creak and slam, Dean climbs out of the Impala and slouches to lean against its door, surveying his new digs. All right, so it's not winning a prize from Martha Stewart anytime soon, but it's a roof over his head. 

It's snowed since he's been here last but his landlord knew it was Dean's move-in day and it looks like the front walk has been shoveled for the occasion. Dean turns to peek through the Impala's back window, estimating the number of trips it'll take him to get everything in the house. It's not like he owns a lot of stuff, but it was still a pain in the ass to load it all in there. 

He turns back to the house and blows on his hands. This is it now.

"Okay, Cas. I know you're pissed at me, but if you could get your feathery ass down here, well, I'd be mighty grateful," he mock prays aloud, chin tilted up toward Heaven from the empty street. "I got something to show you, so, you know, please."

Somewhere around thirty seconds later, Cas pops into existence in front of him, shoulders hunched and tight in his trench coat, disheveled as ever. Dean's heart lurches and his brain stumbles out a real prayer in the form of _please let this work_ , but what he says is, "Hey. Long time, no see."

Cas begins to glower so Dean puts up his hands and points to the house. Cas seems to take note of their unfamiliar surroundings then and, shooting one last doubtful glance at Dean, he turns.

"This is a place of residence," he states, squinting toward the house. He doesn't look very impressed yet.

"Yup." Dean crosses one boot over the other. "It's my place of residence." He watches Cas's spine straighten. 

"What about your arrangement with Lisa?" he asks over his shoulder.

"New deal. She holds down the fort in Cicero, maybe gets herself a real boyfriend someday, and I set up shop here. Try doing my own thing. Somebody once told me it would be good to have a place of my own. I finally got the point."

Cas spins around, and goddamn those huge hopeful eyes. "Dean—"

"So, I thought," Dean glues his eyes to the snow-covered curb and shuffles to his feet, fists shoved deep in his pockets. "I mean, I got this place now, so I thought you should know that you, uh," insecurity clutches his chest like fingers of cold in his lungs. He's probably grimacing when he looks up to meet Cas eye to eye, but he refuses to shut down now. "You can show up any time, okay? Stay for dinner. Hell, spend the night." Cas's expression goes hungry at that and Dean swallows. "So," he clears his throat, "yeah. Mi casa, es su casa. Capisce?"

"Yes."

Dean nods firmly. "Okay. Okay, good." Except, he didn't plan beyond that last part. He hadn't been sure he'd even get Cas to stick around long enough to hear him out. So what he says next is as much a surprise to him as to Cas, probably. "Sam told me about your plan. Or, plans, I guess."

Cas does his half laugh thing Dean hasn't seen in ages, and the fact that it makes him ache in his actual bones makes him kinda believe that dorky thing Sam said about absence and hearts growing fonder, or whatever. 

"The circumstances were . . . unsustainable. I wanted you, Dean. I _want_ you. Too much to let you go, as I should have." Cas frowns a bit—not a sad frown, just a faraway frown—and Dean wonders, not for the first time, how much Cas is still bucking the system to spend time with him. But then Cas goes all earnest angel again. "I had to do what was within my power to make you see what was possible."

"Yeah, well, you could've just asked," Dean jokes, because his other option is to let the lump in his throat choke him to death, but Cas misses the cue.

"Heaven had asked so much of you, Dean. I didn't want to ask more, for myself," he says quietly.

Twisty feelings of guilt and inadequacy, those twin desires to _provide_ and _protect_ , and that squishy affection he really should man up and start calling love more often all squirm inside Dean. He steps close and cups a hand to Cas's jaw, drawing his gaze up. "Here's the difference from now on, 'kay? Doing something in the name of Heaven? Totally off limits. Doing something for you, Cas, because _you_ want me to? I get that. I can do that."

There's this terrifying split second where Dean gets no response whatsoever, but then a grin cracks wide and delirious across Cas's face and Dean probably couldn't have stopped the accompanying kiss even if he'd wanted to.

Like he'd ever want to. 

After the initial, joy-driven smack, Cas pours himself into the kiss, his heat and gladness melting Dean all the way down to his boots. It's far from their first kiss, but as Cas breaks off with a happy pant, Dean can't help feeling like it took him forever to get here. He takes one more kiss from Cas's warm mouth and pulls back, air puffing white between them. 

Dean twitches his head back toward the boxes waiting in the Impala. "Seeing as this is kind of your fault, you could help, you know," he suggests. 

Cas steps away with a shake of his head and, managing the most solemn smirk Dean's ever seen, says calmly, "There are some things a man must do for himself, Dean," before disapparating.

Dean laughs despite himself and yanks open the Impala's rear door.  


  
**— — — — —**   


  


By the time Cas returns, Dean has put away the few groceries he'd bought on the way, unpacked his clothes, made his bed, and established a spot for his toothbrush in the bathroom. He feels productive, even if it doesn't look like much because all the clothing he owns only fills up half the dresser and like not even a quarter of the closet. You can only fit so much in a duffle. 

He's moved from the bedroom back to the kitchen and is currently debating which is the best cupboard to house all those little spice jars when Cas reappears. At his sides he's dangling a six pack from one hand and two grease-stained paper bags that surely contain burgers and fries from the other. 

"Sam told me to tell you this is his housewarming present," he informs Dean. 

Dean laughs aloud, simultaneously wanting to kiss Sam and kick his ass. 

He settles for kissing Cas hello and taking the booze and burgers off his hands. "Score one for Sammy," he says as he plops them on the table next to a box marked _KITCHEN SHIT._ "You stopped in for another one of your little heart-to-hearts, huh?" 

And, okay, so that came out a little more dickish than Dean intended it to. Possibly way more.

He feels Cas bristle before he even turns to face him. "I'm an angel, Dean. Spreading news is part of the job description," Cas snaps. "Sam has been a good friend and confidant during a time of distress. I wanted to share the _glad tidings_." 

"Whoa whoa whoa, Cas, hey." Dean grabs his wrist before Cas can fly away. He's not going to let one bad joke mess this up. He slips right up close to make sure Cas sees he's being straight with him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that, it was just . . . Here's the deal—forget everything I said before, okay? You can hang out with Sam whenever you want. I'm glad you had him on your side. Ain't nobody better for backup, trust me, I know." He coaxes Cas with a smile, but Cas still looks wary. 

Dean slides his hand into Cas's and steps in close. "Stay, Cas. I'm here because I want you here, so stay. Please. Lemme start over."

Cas studies him for a few lingering seconds, then nods and Dean feels the room settle, like the molecules in air had been waiting for Cas's takeoff. 

Now that Cas isn't a flight risk, Dean lets go of his hand and moves around to take his trench coat, tossing it over the back of one of the chairs and prodding him toward the kitchen table. "All right," he rubs his palms together, "We got burgers to eat and a bunch of shit to unpack. You want a beer?" He takes out his key ring, pops the lid off a bottle, and holds it out.

Cas frowns at it slightly. "That was your present, Dean. You don't need to share."

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. "No, Cas, _you_ were my present." Present and olive branch—Sam's way of saying _Sorry for sneaking behind your back, but here's the angel boyfriend I helped you get. Jerk._ He presses the bottle into Cas's hand and give him his best lusty grin. "The food's just the wrapping."

"Oh," Cas says, brow still furrowed.

Dean rolls his eyes as he opens his own beer. "You know, wrapping paper. The stuff that dresses up the present, but that you rip through to get to the thing you actually want."

Cas huffs a laugh, but a bashful, flattered smile makes it all the way to his eyes, which makes Dean smile too. Dean clanks the neck of his bottle to Cas's in a quick toast and doesn't take his eyes from Cas as he takes his first sip. He didn't know angels could blush.

They unpack the boxes in the kitchen and put stuff away as they eat. (Well, Dean eats. Cas has a few token bites of burger but it turns out he's not interested in food that wasn't cooked by Dean, so Dean finishes his, too.) Dean's not used to unpacking with the intention of staying. As the cupboards and drawers fill up, he has to stomp down the feeling that he's spreading himself too thin, making it too hard to clear out in a hurry. But then he looks at Cas carefully putting away dishes or asking him where he wants to keep the colander and reminds himself that that's the point: he's not going anywhere. 

A sense of anticipation builds as they weave around each other in the small kitchen space. Glances from Cas are more mouth-watering than the burgers had been. Heat flares in the inches between them each time one of them presses into the other's personal space. Brushes of Cas's body sizzle through Dean. He gets that will-they-won't-they nervous feeling, like a giddy rolling boil all over inside.

Dean got to keep all the kitchen equipment he'd bought that Lisa swore up and down she was never going to use. She also gave him a set of pots and pans and one of those overhead pot rack things for Christmas. He enlists Cas's help in hanging the rack in the space above the sink and subsequently has to focus on not falling off the kitchen chair he's standing on every time he looks down to take one of the parts from Cas and sees the angel staring up at him, his mouth open in concentration and, coincidently, at the same level as Dean's crotch. 

When Dean's pretty sure the pot rack's not going to rip out of the ceiling, he climbs down and hangs all the pots and pans from the hooks in the order Cas dictates according to the picture on the box. Then he pulls Cas back a few steps to the middle of the kitchen to admire their work. It's the only decoration-type thing in the room but Dean doesn't care. It's shiny and awesome. He flips his screwdriver in the air, catching it handily, and plants his fists on his hips like a superhero, beaming at their job well done. 

Cas beams at Dean instead. "Are we finished?" he asks politely. 

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, pretty much. I mean, there's still some stuff left for the living room, but—" Cas takes the screwdriver from Dean's hand, setting it on the table with the other tools, crumpled burger wrappers, and empties, then steps in close to Dean. His gaze catches on Dean's lips for a second before his eyes make it up to Dean's, and that giddy feeling in Dean kicks up a notch, or ten. "Yeah," Dean croaks, throat tight. "We're done." 

"Good," Cas nods absently, moving closer. "I thought so," he says against Dean's mouth. And then he kisses him. 

It's just a regular kiss at first. Just Cas's broad mouth, warm and soft. But it heats up fast. Their mouths open and Cas's tongue pushes in, sliding along Dean's in a way that fires up every sex impulse Dean has. Dean finds Cas's hips and cinches him tight, letting Cas's hum of approval roll hot through him. Then Cas nudges forward, pelvis pushing against Dean, once, twice—just enough, just a little—and if Dean wasn't getting hard before, he sure as fuck is now. 

Dean begins to tug Cas's white shirt up from where it's been eternally tucked into his pants. He pulls the fabric free in handfuls, slips his hands beneath it and onto Cas's skin for the first time. Cas sucks in a breath, immediately exhaling Dean's name. Dean drags his palms up Cas's back, down his spine, around his ribs. "Dean— Dean—" Cas repeats between bites and kisses along Dean's ear and neck, like he can't remember what whe wanted to say beyond that. Dean moves one hand down around Cas's ass, holding his body hard against him as he ruts forward to feel Cas's hard-on next to his. Cas groans deep. Dean almost loses it.

"Cas, fuck. Fuck, I want to—" Dean wants to make Cas come. Dean wants Cas to make him come. Dean wants Cas stripped bare and begging. He wants a lot of things he can't have because what if . . . Because someone could . . . 

Dean starts to laugh into Cas's kiss. "Dude, we are so alone right now." Cas nods against Dean's mouth. Dean strokes his thumbs over Cas's hipbones. "So're you thinking what I'm thinking?" Cas growls something that can only be an affirmative and Dean kisses him more, picturing what it will be like to really get his hands on him, to strip him down and stretch him out on—

"I don't have a couch," Dean blurts, breaking away from Cas's mouth. He gapes at his mostly empty house, panic flapping in his chest, completely appalled that he hadn't considered the lack of readily available horizontal surfaces before now. "Oh, but I've got a bed," he appeals, relief crashing through him as he pushes Cas in the direction of the bedroom. "I made it and everything."

But Cas doesn't budge. 

Dean gawps at him, probably crazy eyed, but Cas just stares all serious and sexy at him through his eyelashes. "No, Dean," he says, voice deep enough to be from a quarry. His gaze slides over to the sturdy red wood kitchen table then back up to Dean. "I have you," his fingers pick at Dean's belt, "exactly," he unthreads the belt from the buckle, exposing the button of Dean's jeans, "where I want you."

Cas skates a knuckle down Dean's obvious denim-covered erection and— 

"Here works," Dean caves. "This is good."

Stuff from table clatters to the floor as Cas pushes Dean onto it. From flat on his back, Dean leans up to grin at him. "You are a kinky bastard, aren't you?" he teases as Cas drags down his boxers and jeans, but Cas doesn't answer and that's the last coherent thought Dean manages for a while. 

In fact, he spends the next however many minutes with his pants shoved to his knees, his shirt rucked up to his chest, and one leg dangling off the table as Cas practically feasts on him. With one hand always cupping Dean's cock, nursing its base between his fingers, Cas laps at Dean's chest, sucks marks into his skin, bites the jumpy tender skin at the joint of Dean's thigh. Dean cusses and encourages him, tries to keep his hands on Cas when he can. But when Cas begins to mouth Dean's cock, soft wet lips sneaking up his length, alternating with tongue, Dean loses the ability to form words. And when Cas takes him into his mouth, tongue slick and hot against the head of his cock, Dean's hands lock in Cas's hair. He moans for how outrageously good it feels, how fucking perfect Cas is, for how much he wants to get his heels under him and push up off this fucking table and into that seriously sinful mouth. "Fuck. Like that. Cas, yes," he groans.

Dean's balls beginning to pull tight, that building, burn of being so close. But no, it's too close. Way too close. He doesn't want to be done yet. 

"Cas," Dean pants, "Cas, hey." Dean grabs a handful of Cas's hair and tugs, but in response the angel just sucks harder and Dean has to smack the table and think about changing the oil filter on the Impala to keep from coming. This cannot be over yet. He hasn't even gotten any of Cas's clothes off, and the situation is so damn typical—Cas does all the work, gets none of the reward. If Dean's coming, he's at least bringing Cas with him, damn it.

"Fucking get up here." He pulls at the shoulders of Cas's shirt this time.

Miraculously, Cas pulls off. He has that interrupted-and-angry look, complete with well-used red lips, but Dean tugs at him more and tries to, like, _project_ a mental picture of what he wants because, whatever, isn't that how telepathy works? 

Either way, Cas climbs up onto to the table, straddling Dean and unzipping his own pants. The sight makes Dean's lungs stop. He yanks Cas down by his tie and lets Cas kiss him filthy as they both use one hand to work Cas's dick the rest of the way free. Cas's whole body shudders when Dean gets a firm grip. 

" _Dean_ ," he pleads. His voice is a train wreck.

For as many times as they've come this close in his dreams, they haven't actually done this before, Dean realizes. Somehow it jacks up how hot it is that Cas says his name like that. 

"S'alright, Cas," he soothes, teasing pre-come over the head with his thumb. "I got you, I got you."

Cas shivers and pants and repeats Dean's name, but he gets himself together enough to wrap his hand around Dean again. Dean bucks up helplessly as Cas mimics Dean's hand motions, jacking him off in return. Cas counteracts Dean's hips by dipping down for a kiss, pinning him harder in place. 

Dean tucks his fist, and Cas's cock, against his body. It's hotter, slicker from sweat and spit and seminal fluid. That feeling flares inside him again, the building burn. Faster now. He's so close. So close— "Come on, Cas. Come with me," he whispers. Cas whimpers and begins to fuck into Dean's cupped hand, still sloppily pulling, pulling, pulling at Dean and that's it, that's—

Dean hits it. He tenses hard, curses and comes, praising Cas as he spills all over his knuckles. Cas comes in the iron grip of Dean's orgasm and Dean doesn't dare let go until he's done, until he collapses, boneless and panting at Dean's neck. 

It's a few minutes before Dean comes around to full brain function again. Even then he waits for the kitchen ceiling to stop spinning, for their pulses to stop jumping. Eventually he pries his hand out from between their bodies. It's sticky as fuck, but he shakes Cas. "Hey. You alive in there?" 

Cas peels up and blinks at him, hair destroyed, eyes blurry. Dean smiles. He could get used to waking up to that.

"C'mere." Dean waves him into a kiss and Cas complies, seeming to regain his faculties as they go. In fact, it's Cas who breaks off first. He pulls back, alert and grinning.

"What?" Dean cocks his head on the table. He feels like he missed something.

Cas laughs and there's a jumble of affection and satisfaction in the low roll of his voice when he says, "Welcome home, Dean."  


**— — — — —**   


  


The next morning Dean stumbles out of bed (because they had, eventually, made it to bed) in his boxers. He thinks he hears Cas moving around the house already. Maybe angels don't sleep, but Dean does and Cas could've at least pretended a little longer. 

"Coffee maker," he mutters to himself as he pads barefoot into the kitchen. "I need to own a coffee maker." But the sight that greets him has Dean as sharp and alert as any diner dark roast.

Cas is in an apron—in nothing but an apron—and making pancakes. Or, trying to make pancakes. It looks to be a losing battle.

"Uh, Cas?"

The kitchen's a mess. On the stove are burnt pancakes, rumpled pancakes, and smears of pancake batter from failed attempts to flip pancakes. There's a box of Bisquick and some egg shells, a carton of milk, bottle of syrup, and a can of whipped cream on the counter. 

"Where'd you even get all this?" Dean asks, wading into the mess. He picks up a burnt pancake and taps it against the edge of the stove. It's solid. 

Cas is frowning at the circle of lumpy batter currently not cooking in the pan. He looks as though he's considering whether a good smiting might make it golden brown. "I used the money I found in your wallet."

Scooting in behind Cas, Dean reaches around him to hover a hand over the pan. There's barely any heat coming off it. He turns up the burner a smidge and kisses the bare skin on Cas's shoulder. 

Last night they'd taken their time picking up the wreckage from their kitchen table adventure—the kitchen table that is now set for two, Dean notices with a pang of fondness. Afterward, Dean had cajoled Cas into the bedroom for the express purpose of sucking him off, because he was sure it would blow Cas's mind. It did, and Dean's pretty sure he's now addicted to making Cas writhe and whimper and come. His new goal is to make Cas curse. He has a couple ideas on how to make that happen. 

Anyway, after he'd rocked Cas's world, he'd finished himself off with his fist where Cas could see and they'd hunkered down for what was probably an extended cuddling session for Cas but for Dean felt more like the best sleep of his life. Thing is, Dean definitely remembers Cas being naked during the cuddling, so although it's good Cas took some cash with him this time, news of the shopping trip makes Dean wince.

"Please tell me you didn't fly out of here naked," he asks, nosing at the nape of Cas's neck.

"Cooking is much more difficult without you," Cas says instead.

Dean sighs and supposes he would've gotten a phone call if Cas had gotten caught streaking a grocery store. He peeks around to where Cas is poking at the center of the pancake with a spatula. "Here, lemme see," he offers, taking the spatula. "Leave the middle alone. You gotta wait for the edges to get hard, and when the center part bubbles like that then you flip it." He loosens the pancake from the pan and hands the spatula back to Cas. "Try now."

Cas scoops up the pancake, twists his wrist, and drops it back in the pan, right-side up. He chuckles at his success. "I was supposed to be making you breakfast." 

Dean shifts to the side and spins Cas to face him. "It's the thought that counts," he shrugs. Cas laughs again and taps at the pancake. 

The kitchen is warm despite the January morning, and the sunlight glows on the cabinets, highlights the clutter on the counter. Dean gets a shiver in spite of the warmth. "Man, I have wicked déjà vu right now." Cas's eyebrows knit, so Dean explains, "Means I feel like I've done this before. Maybe I dreamt it." Then he smirks. "I used to dream about you, you know."

A shy half smile shows up on Cas's mouth. "I know." 

"What do you mean, 'you know'?" Dean jerks back a little, confused. "It's not like . . ." And a thousand dreams flash through his memory, all so much the same—kissing and Cas and a kitchen. He matches the times when there wasn't Cas with the times when there weren't dreams. His eyes widen. "Dude, you were there? Like, _there_ there?" 

He could choose to be pissed about the possibility of Cas planting ideas in his head, but instead he goes straight to the sexy side of things—Cas was apparently digging on Dean's fantasies. 

"The dreams were yours," Cas says, all seriousness—except his concentration is on the spatula as he shovels the perfectly done pancake onto a plate. He smiles up at Dean when it lands safely. "I only . . . suggested some locations. And made myself available. Positive reinforcement is an effective strategy."

Dean laughs. Reinterpreted through angelspeak, he's pretty sure that means Cas had, in fact, been bribing him with the promise of sex. It's funnier than it should be. And kind of sweet in that I-don't-know-how-to-ask-for-things-I-want, angel way.

"Positive reinforcement, huh? Is that what you were going for that time you got into my pants?"

Cas wriggles in Dean's arms to turn back to the stove, looking shifty. "I never dictated the flow of events." 

Dean strokes the backs of his fingers along the firm plane of Cas's bare side. "Never?"

"Rarely." Cas concedes. 

"Well," he says, pulling Cas back from reaching for the remaining batter, "I woke up hard from that one." He flattens his palm and reaches around Cas, slipping his hand under the apron and dragging his thumb over the curve of hipbone. 

"I know." Dean can hear Cas's smug smile. He brushes his hand over Cas's crotch and Cas gasps. "Dean," he breathes, throaty and eager. Dean's the smug one now.

"Yeah, Cas?" he asks, lips grazing an ear. He tucks his fingers around Cas's sac, nestles the heel of his hand on the underside of his cock. Cas is statue still, spatula stationary in midair, like if he moves Dean might stop. So Dean begins to massage, slow and gentle. No sudden moves. He feels Cas grow hard against his wrist. 

One thing Dean learned last night, Cas loves to be touched. Practically craves it. Begs for it. It's fucking awesome. He slides his left hand under the apron, trading places with his already warm right one. He traces his right hand up before forming a loose circle around Cas's firming cock. Dean's hard by now, too.

Cas sets the spatula down very carefully, away from the hot burner. His breath is already ragged. "Dean," he repeats. "Do you know why it was always kitchens, Dean? Why I came back to watch you cook?" Dean wags his head, presses a near silent no into Cas's hair. "Because you're beautiful when you're in control. When you're working." Dean rubs his thumb over the damp slit of Cas's cock. "Oh," Cas wavers. "Oh, yes." He makes a little plaintive moan-y sound. "Always wanted your hands on me, Dean."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Cas doesn't know you're not supposed to say shit like that, but Dean could still come from hearing it, just from the sound of his voice. He has to start breathing through his mouth. 

Cas tries to thrust forward, but Dean winds a leg around his knee, stopping him, focusing all his remaining concentration on staying on his own feet and keeping Cas from slipping. He glances down and wishes he could see his hands, see him working Cas beneath the apron. Cas throws head back, and catches Dean's ear with his mouth. Dean groans, his pelvis involuntarily nudging forward. 

In an instant, Cas grabs Dean's hips and pulls him tight to the cleft of his ass, grinding back against him. He even bends forward, parting his cheeks enough to cradle Dean's dick. Dean loses his breath. Dirty fucking angel. 

He catches Cas around the chest, keeping them both from toppling face first into the stove. Cas makes little thrusts into Dean's remaining hand, still clutching Dean against him, and, "Yeah, okay. I need to fuck you now," Dean concludes. He reaches out and snaps off the burner. 

Cas's knees almost give out, like he's ready to drop and do it right there. "Yes. Dean—" 

Dean yanks him back up. "No, not here. Bedroom," he orders. Cas pouts. Dean surveys the pancake mess on the stove, the Bisquick and whipped cream and egg shells on the counter and shakes his head. "Cas, I promise to fuck you on the kitchen floor some other day. Right now, this first time, I'm going to fuck you in bed. Trust me on this one." 

He begins to marshal Cas in the direction of the bedroom, but hesitates for a second. Cas glances over his shoulder, head cocked. Dean looks at Cas, looks at the counter, looks back at Cas. 

"Okay, we're going," Dean says, "But we're taking this." He swipes the whipped cream can. 

Cas grins.  


**— — — — —**   


  



	4. Chapter 4

**EPILOGUE**

Not too far in the future, Dean finds a bank that will give him a loan, if Lisa cosigns, and hole in the wall dive for cheap outside of South Bend and sets up shop. He calls it the Winchester Diner because, well, nobody ever accused him of being original. Folks like the name and most choose to chuckle over menu items like _Satan's Chilli Cheese Fries: Burning hot and sinful enough to send you to Hell_ and _Archangel Chicken Wings: Fried extra crispy_ instead of get offended.

Dean doesn't do up the theme in the décor, though. Just sticks to the basics—long bar with stainless steel stools, half a dozen booths, couple tables. All the seats are covered in the sparkly red plastic stuff. He has a couple Zepp and AC/DC posters on one wall, a bulletin board of photos on the other. There's a picture of Ben and Lisa in one of the booths with Ben smiling through a face full of burger while Lisa grins with her chin planted on her fist; another of Sam sprawling the length of the countertop, exhausted after that marathon day of cleaning and painting; one of Bobby giving Dean a gruffly fond eye roll as Dean smiles and points to a framed one-dollar bill, his first honest dollar as a legitimate business owner; and of Cas, sleeves rolled up, towel over his shoulder, his smile open and his nose scrunched up in laughter.

Cas has an open invitation to show up whenever he wants, so long as he flutters in and out of existence from the kitchen and not out front where the customers sit. When people ask about that cute fella in the trench coat who seems to be more than a regular, Dean smiles and tells them he's in business and travels a lot. When Cas isn't "traveling" he spends time in Dean's kitchen or Dean's bed. Even after a few years, Cas still begs for Dean's touch in bed, still looks surprised when he comes, all wonder and awe. He still feels like home to Dean. And it turns out that, once he gets the hang of it, Cas makes a mean pie with flaky crust to die for—Dean features them on the counter as "heaven-sent" rather than the usual "homemade."

Hunters come through. Their business is slow these days, but there's a crew still out there, knocking off the hauntings and werewolves and whatnot. Dean keeps tabs on some cases, offers tips and tricks here and there. The Winchester becomes a hub. It's a good location—Middle America, halfway to wherever you're headed.

Sam picks up shifts when he can, which means Sam sits in the corner booth with his 800-page law books and guzzles coffee and takes over the grill when Dean can't find anybody else. Over time Dean hires a bus boy named Troy and a prep cook named Hank, and a waitress, and then a second waitress. Pat's a bottle-blond broad with a swagger who doesn't take guff from Dean even though he owns the place. Jeanie's got a kid Dean thinks is the bomb and a douchebag ex Dean would like to give a black eye. 

It's long hours and he goes home to his little, two-bedroom rental house smelling like the fryer, but that's better than blood or sulfur, and they make it work. Sam eventually tells him Ellen would be proud and Dean tells him to shut up, but only because he really hopes it’s true.

  
**— end —**   



End file.
